


bright red

by softjohndae



Category: Monsta X (Band)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Heavy Angst, M/M, Mentions of Eating Disorder, Model!AU, lapslock, mentions of cutting, mentions of depression, the character death might be for the reader to interpret
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-10
Updated: 2018-02-10
Packaged: 2019-03-16 12:39:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13636473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softjohndae/pseuds/softjohndae
Summary: for hyungwon that one person is the salvation, the amnesty and hell on earth.





	bright red

**Author's Note:**

> dedicated to meri, andy, rimin, pälli and emma, they are the reason this exists. 
> 
> the angsty model au no one asked for. the fic has been translated from finnish to english so it might have lost some of it's effect but oh well (and the original text is mine as well). the writing style in the original is very stream of consciousness-like and i tried to interpret it to english as much as possible. anyways heavy angst i'm sorry for writing this and i hope you enjoy!!
> 
>  
> 
> this fic has also been translated to vietnamese; https://my.w.tt/FVNEW6enMK

the water in the bathtub is light pink. it has some rosey bubbles and rose petals in it. hyungwon lays in the tub, knees on his chest, a glass of wine between his fingers. loneliness. it’s a familiar feeling for hyungwon. loneliness is a little bit like a blanket that you can wrap around yourself in front of the fireplace during the dark winter nights, when longing someone is the only thing occupying your mind and there is an empty seat next to you, reserved for that someone. hyungwon doesn’t have that someone, though. he has no one, not a single soul to pity his loneliness. no one, no one to fall next to on a bed after a long day, no one to comfort him, no one, who would sit next to him on a balcony staring at the first rays of sunrise, a lit cigarette between slender fingers, talking about the faraway places behind the horizon. hyungwon will never see the places behind the horizon. he’s not an adventurer, but he’s still the one who shows the world the places behind the horizon, the one who carries them with grace for the people to see, the one who brings everything from egypt to norway, from north to south, from east to west for a person to touch. hyungwon works in a circus, but not the happy kind of circus with elephants and trapeze artists and serpent ladies, but the kind of circus with vomit, slavery and snakelike people, who bite and cause you pain and agony. hyungwon wants to get away, but oh no, no no, he can’t, he can’t get away because he is tall and handsome and thin and gorgeous and graceful and beautiful and exotic and everything at the same time and he carries himself with oozing confidence, chin up in the air, a resting bitchface on his face and a cigarette that tastes like next day’s agony in his mouth. 

hyungwon is a model. he’s a model, in a freak show some people like to refer as a modeling agency, his arena is the catwalk and his appetite is nonexistent. or, actually, hyungwon’s manager has decided that it’s nonexistent. like he has also decided, that today hyungwon has to sit the whole fucking night in some really bad opera, alongside with other freaks in their velvet garments, champagne in his chrystal glass and on the corners of his lips. the theatre, where this opera is being performed is basically one of the elite theatres in seoul. gilded doorknobs, marble floor, statues, red velvet, silk, chrystal chandeliers. people in expensive suits. people in expensive tomfoolery. people in expensive dresses. hyungwon is wearing a cobalt blue suit, a black bow around his neck, gucci, perhaps (not that it actually matters to him). black shoes, italian leather, handmade. light makeup, mouth plastered in a permanent smile that definitely doesn’t reach his eyes. everyone, who looks at hyungwon for more than two seconds can see it’s fake. a couple of silver rings are enhancing his long, slender fingers. hyungwon looks breathtaking, as always. it’s so ordinary to him and it has lost all of it’s glory a long time ago. people come and go, they ask how he’s doing, and with a monotone voice hyungwon answers: ”very good, mister, how about you?” or ”very good, miss, how about you?” nothing else. hyungwon has to be likable, he has to speak with hushed tones and few words, he has to be careful not to show any emotion. distressing? definitely. but oh well, who cares, no one sees the scars on hyungwon’s thighs underneath the silk suit anyway, everyone sees only the shell, the things they want to see. 

everyone, except him. hyungwon freezes, he can feel it. like hot wax being poured down his back along with icy shower. like the softest breath of summer breeze and the booming thunder of catatumbo. all. at. once. hyungwon can’t see, but he knows, oh boy does he know, there is just one person in the world, who lights him up like that. slowly, slowly, almost shyly hyungwon turns his head towards the darkest corner in the theatre lounge. the corner that the light from the chrystal chandeliers barely touches, the corner with only a couple of lonely chairs with their red velvet cladding. the corner, where only one lonely person is sitting, a person, who is just another face for the people in the lounge, but for hyungwon that one person is the salvation, the amnesty and hell on earth. a silent gasp escapes from hyungwons thick, dry lips, when he sees the familiar face. the face that he has drawn in his mind countless times, the face he has looked at on the most passionate nights of his life. the face that he can never get tired of. hoseok. hoseok, who is a complete opposite of hyungwon. ripped jeans, ragged leather jacket, worn out white shirt. muddy sneakers, wet hair (dyed, even though hyungwon doesn’t notice it just yet, of course he doesn’t, he just stares, looks the other one in the eyes, feels the breath die in his lungs and wants to scream, escape, run into the other’s arms and cry, all at the same time). hoseok sits in the corner of the lounge, and yet, despite the dim lightning, hyungwon sees, he sees how hoseok’s knuckles are scratched and his lower lip is split, already healing, though, but still swollen, and there is a tiny bruise on top of his jugular notch, and hyungwon knows exactly how it got there, and who has done it. 

the bell rings, showtime. hyungwon is yanked back to the ground, literally, when his manager taps him on the shoulder. ”time to go, sweetie”, he says and hyungwon shudders. he puts down the glass of champagne, barely touched, on the glass table next to him, he smiles a little to the people around him, and his manager, of course. like a stream, people slowly start to flow in to the theatre hall that is gloomy and musty. different perfumes are creating a cacophony of smells in the air. it makes hyungwon want to vomit. his leather shoes brush against the dark red carpeting of the hall (which looks like blood in this light, oh, what a silly thought, it’s like the guests are all walking in a pool of blood, what if it was real, oh, what kind of chaos would ensue of that) and hyungwon can’t stop himself, he has to, he needs to see, he feels the wax streaming down his back and thunder of catatumbo drumming inside him, and he turns around, looks behind him, searches that dark corner. 

empty. ice cold hands clasp around hyungwon’s neck. 

*

it’s been 17 days since hyungwon has last seen hoseok. and every single day that man has occupied his thoughts, and every day, every hour, every minute, every second hyungwon has missed him. craved him. needed him. and now, sitting on the uncomfortably smooth surface of the theatre bench (velvet, of course. why is it always velvet? it just collects dust and wears off easily and is hard to clean), the only thing on hyungwon’s mind is hoseok. again. hoseok’s fingers (magic, hyungwon swears), lips, whispers, the feeling he creates whenever he’s around (hyungwon is accepted, hyungwon is loved, hyungwon is liked, that is). hyungwon is tapping the armrest and drumming his leg against the floor, the manager shushes him to stop but hyungwon can’t, he needs to get away, he needs to get to hoseok, he needs to breathe, he needs to breathe in hoseok’s scent (cigarettes, gasoline, sweat, everything disgusting and hyungwon is still addicted), oh god he has craved, longed for the other’s presence with every cell of his body and oh god he needs to go to get away oh god he needs to breathe oh god oh god oh god hot wax cold hands half time says the performer. with grace hyungwon gets up, along with others, peacefully, with a dash of haste he walks out of the musty hall to even mustier air, because he isn’t there, he isn’t in the corner. he is not in the lounge. he is. not. here. ”excuse me”, hyungwon says to his manager and everyone around him with a shaky voice and then he goes, he strides towards the men’s bathroom. he strides until he feels like he’s suffocating and then he’s running, he’s running for his life and there is a door oh thank god there is a door even though hyungwon doesn’t believe in god and he unlocks the door, swings it open and the air is cold and filling in his lungs and he can breathe again. his heart is thumping. hands are shaking. 

cigarette smoke floats in the air, straight in to hyungwon’s senses. he turns his head fast, looks at the alleyway and he can’t breathe but he can breathe better than in weeks. there he is, leaning against the brick wall, cigarette between his chapped lips, dark eyes on hyungwon. there’s frazil ice on top of the small puddles on the bumpy asphalt of the theatre backyard. blood is roaring in hyungwon’s veins, filling his ears with white noise. a step. another. hyungwon takes a dreep breath, bites his lip, he’s at a riptide. 17 days of paining loneliness. and now, there hoseok stands, with a cigarette between his lips, lazily leaning against the brick wall, as always. as fucking always. hyungwon lets out a single sob, he doesn’t even notice that one tiny chrystaldrop is running down his cheek. something shifts the air, something changes and suddenly hoseok doesn’t feel like a projection from hyungwon’s deepest dreams, he’s there, right there, something in his eyes, not entirely compassion, not entirely something called love, but something, and hyungwon takes the final steps and the loneliness disappears and warmth returns with almost exploding force back to his lithe body (he hadn’t even realized how cold he was without hoseok).

hyungwon wraps his hands around hoseok, buries his face in the crook of the other’s neck. a second. two. tense shoulders, fear. and then hoseok pulls hyungwon into his tight embrace, curls his hands around the taller’s waist, the cigarette between his index and middle finger. hyungwon is practically shaking from relief. hoseok is here, now, right now. hoseok, broad shoulders, built arms (that hyungwon can feel through hoseok’s leather jacket), the same scent of cigarettes and gasoline. hyungwon can’t let go, he can’t even though he should go back, he knows the manager has to go without him back to watch the performance and everbody asks where he went and now the manager has to make up something about migraines and nausea and tomorrow hyungwon has a few bruises more but he can’t let go of hoseok now. not now. not, when he finally has him in his arms and he’s not lonely anymore and the world is somehow a little more bearable and hyungwon feels something besides continuous apathy. 

finally hyungwon leans back a little, but just so that he can look at hoseok’s face. hoseok is rough, all sharp edges, splatter of ink on a white paper, soft, chapped lips (a split on the right side, probably a gang fight, hyungwon doesn’t know and he doesn’t ask because he knows hoseok hates to feel weak and wounds are a sign of weakness according to hoseok’s philosophy). the eyes, deep, wild and piercing, so piercing the breath gets stuck in one’s throat. hoseok is staring back at hyungwon, he sees the covered dark eyebags, the wailing eyes, the layer of concealer on his already perfect skin (and a reddish cheek that the dim theatre lights cover and wrath flashes in hoseok’s chest). soft, thick lips. striking beauty. ”you dyed your hair”, hyungwon whispers. hoseok nods. hyungwon had once said, half joking that blue would fit hoseok, and now his hair was blue. hyungwon feels like smiling, but he doesn’t. he can’t when the small voice is screaming in the back of his mind that soon this all will be over and you will be lonely again and who even cares about you, not hoseok. the other man brings the cigarette back to his lips, takes a long drag and blows the smoke away from hyungwon’s face before handing the rollup to hyungwon. well, he doesn’t actually hand it, you see, hoseok places it between hyungwon’s lips, dragging his finger across the bottom lip. hyungwon sucks in the air through the filter, sucks in the air between the two of them, sucks in hoseok’s scent and presence. (he’s safe, almost.) hoseok’s cigarettes are always better than hyungwon’s, even though they’re self rolled and the cheapest brand out there and he keeps them in an old, worn out cigarette carton with one corner torn and maybe sometimes the cigs are a little moist but to hyungwon they’re all perfect, so much better that any of his lucky strike’s. they’re hoseok’s. 

hyungwon lives in the moment, the leather of hoseok’s jacket underneath his fingers, chest to chest. hoseok is all muscle and intensive stares and together with the cigarette smoke hyungwon’s head is spinning. he closes his eyes, leans his head back, still keeping his hands around hoseok. the other’s hand has never left his waist. soon he feels familiar fingertips on his chin. a thumb traces his features before pressing against the sensitive skin of his bottom lip and hyungwon does as he is asked to, turns his head back, eyes still closed and then hoseok’s lips are against his own. hyungwon tastes the cigarettes, he tastes iron, he tastes every bitter night he has spent alone and he tastes hoseok. hyungwon drowns, hoseok’s hand moves from hyungwon’s chin to his cheek and wipes that one single teardrop away. electricity on the bottom of his stomach and on his toes and fingertips and suddenly hyungwon is 14 again, in love for the first time and he kisses hoseok back harder and the other doesn’t back away but pulls hyungwon in tighter and oh god hyungwon has craved and longed and missed this and he knows, he knows hoseok has too even though he would never admit that to himself and hyungwon’s phone vibrates in his pocket but he doesn’t care, nothing else matters when hoseok is here and he is warm and hyungwon can finally breathe and nothing else matters but hoseok’s lips and hands and scent and soon everything will be taken from him once again when the door behind them opens and he rips himself away from hoseok, jolts around, hands from his waist disappear and he’s alone again, so alone, so lonely. all alone. heat spreads across his cheek. 

 

* * *

 

hyungwon is stupid, fat, ugly, a shame for the entire industry, he should die, no one would miss him, or maybe he would rise among stars and everyone would be oh so sad to have lost him and he would have been too gorgeous for this world, but no, hyungwon doesn’t fit in alexander mcqueen and he is worthless, a dumb fucking slut, he can’t take care of himself, he’s shameful, disgusting, icky, completely horrifying excuse of a model and there he is, sitting on the bathroom floor, black eyeliner leaving streaks across his cheeks and his morning coffee (milk skimmed) is on his lips and in the toilet and it’s all so graceless and unattractive and hyungwon vomits once again from the pure disgust of himself. the ceramic tile floor is cold and white, hyungwon wishes he could just stay there for the rest of his sorry life but his pocket is vibrating once again and it’s probably the manager who wants to yell at hyungwon and then tell about a new fashion show. the tears are flowing down and hyungwon feels so bad, so. bad. so .f uckin g. ba . d a nd again there is one more bleeding wound on his upper thigh before hyungwon throws the razor blade across the floor tiles, pulls his knees to his chest and cries. he’s so utterly, completely alone and the words, now faint, almost invisible to the eye (inhale exhale) are completely forgotten. breathing is hard, sobs are too strong, hyungwon is running out of oxygen, can this all just end already, can the pain stop, finally stop, when does it stop, i can’t do this anymore, before the exhaustion takes over hyungwon, tears staining his beautiful, perfect cheeks falls asleep against the cold tile floor, alone. 

but he doesn’t wake up alone. and he doesn’t wake up from the cold tile floor in the bathroom surrounded by red and green. he wakes up from white satin sheets, he’s warm. the sunlight sweeps through the cracks between the blinds, lights the room that hyungwon recognises as his own. white is the main color. it’s clean. black details here and there. minimalistic, one can see the perfectionism. that’s what hyungwon is, a perfectionist and when something goes wrong, he blames himself of it, hurts himself and oh dear how hoseok hates to see it, hates to see how hyungwon treats himself, hates that the model can’t see how perfect he already is with his thick lips and soft laughs. a sharp pain startles hyungwon and he recalls the night prior. nausea is burning on the back of his throat and tears are ensuing and then he notices that the door to the balcony is open and the safest scent in the whole wide world fills his lungs. the nausea dies, tears dry when hoseok steps back in from the morning sun. rays dance against his golden skin, he looks like god spent the whole day creating only him. hyungwon sighs when hoseok smiles a little, or more so smirks. he sits at the edge of the bed, hyungwon rises up from the beddings, grimacing at the pain, is about to say something before hoseok shushes him down, presses back against the covers. it’s time for hyungwon to get all the love he deserves, all the attention, and hoseok mumbles sweet nothings, little praises, soft confessions against hyungwon’s skin, makes sure to kiss every single scar and curve and fault (which are not faults in hoseok’s eyes) and hyungwon feels himself loved for once, almost happy when long, thin fingers curl in hoseok’s blue locks and hyungwon’s breath quickens, the air in the room thickens and hoseok is the only thing that exists in hyungwon’s world. 

 

* * * 

 

hyungwon is a mess. not in a disheveled way, oh no, he’s looking prettier than ever. his hair is combed back, making space for his beautiful bone structure. his eyes have a slight sweep of some liner, his clothes are newest chanel, smelling like filthy rich. on the inside, though, oh boy is he a mess. he has a storm going on in his head. the spotlights of the catwalk make hyungwon’s skin tingle almost the way hoseok’s fingers do. but hoseok isn’t here, it’s been days since they last saw each other, and that’s why hyungwon is a mess. he stares at his reflection in the mirror and wonders whether dead people look as pale as he does in the sickening blue lights of the backstage. his skin looks chalky, the only color in his face being red lips, oh what a snow white. maybe he would choke on an apple as well as the princess did in the fairytale, and then he wouldn’t have to go and act in this sickening circus anymore. hyungwon walks up to the catwalk, he has confidence in every step he takes, because that’s what he is, confident, brave, he carries himself with grace. what if he’d fall right now? would the manager hit him so hard he wouldn’t have to walk ever again? or maybe he would snap hyungwon’s legs in half as he had promised one time? hyungwon plays with the thought a little, oh, so tempting, he could end this all, but he won’t, of course he won’t. why? because the catwalk is a sacred place, a sanctuary despite all the hardships and misfortune. the spotlights, flashing cameras, judging gazes and whispers, the music, it all makes it worth it. hyungwon loves and hates it. he loves it so much and he knows this is what he wants to do, this is what he’s meant to do, this is why he’s still alive, (he feels wanted, the people around him either want to be him or fuck him and it makes hyungwon feel almost as good as hoseok makes him feel). and there it is again, hoseok occupying his mind. hyungwon almost chokes on air but he walks, he walks with grace, with perfect steps and no emotion on his beautiful face and for once the manager smiles at him and he’s proud of him (until it’s time to walk for mcqueen again and hyungwon can’t fit into the clothes).

hoseok is proud of him too. he says it, mumbles it against hyungwon’s skin during one sweet night when the rain thrums against the windows and hyungwon’s heart thrums against his chest and his fingers are tangled in the sheets and the ninth cloud is only inches away. the next morning hyungwon wakes up his head against a familiar chest, a little drool on his chin and oh lord he didn’t remember being happy felt this good. hoseok usually didn’t stay the night, and if he did, he made sure to leave before hyungwon woke up. but this morning is different and there he is, laying between the same sheets with hyungwon, chest heaving with peaceful, slow breaths and hyungwon touches every single bruise he left on the other’s chest last night. it’s funny, really, how much an illusion of love can change a person. illusion, yes, hyungwon knows, even if hoseok would whisper sweet nothings hundreds of times to him, he’s just a slice of life to him, a moment of ecstasy passing by, just a little fun. he doesn’t want to be, but he is. 

hyungwon is wrong, though. well, he’s kind of right but still wrong. hoseok doesn’t want to admit it to himself, nor to anyone, how attached he is to hyungwon. how hyungwon is the only thing circling in his mind nowadays, all the time, how much it hurts to see the other suffer so much, how it hurts him to see the other press himself up to the hilt and break under the pressure. hoseok tries to stay away, tries to forget the model boy but he can’t, he always comes back, picks up the pieces and fixes what he left behind last time. he reminds hyungwon what it’s like to be loved. and hyungwon thinks it’s an illusion. he doesn’t know if it’s love he feels towards the other man or just obsession. is he in love with hoseok? or is he in love with his gestures, his smiles, his sweet nothings and the thought of him loving hyungwon? is he in love with the idea of being in love? hyungwon doesn’t know what love is, and he doesn’t want to know, because if the illusion of love hurts this much, then how much pain does the actual feeling cause? 

 

* * *

 

a glass (or two, or three) of champaigne and laughter bubbles through hyungwon when he sits astride on hoseok’s lap, wearing the other man’s gasoline-smelling leather jacket and a pair of silk briefs. hoseok is only wearing a white shirt and boxers. the shirt is loosely hanging on his frame, giving hyungwon a peek of his other shoulder and collarbone. the leather jacket is way, way too big for hyungwon, but it’s still the most comfortable thing he has ever worn (it’s the hoseok effect. almost like buttefly effect but hoseok effect. a theory of chaos that ensues in hyungwon’s head.) he has a bottle of breixenet in his hand, the cheapest available, and he stands up, staggers to the other side of the room. he’s going to put on a show, the best one yet. a private one. the room turns to a catwalk, hyungwon finds his elegance and grace and like the model he is, he walks from wall to the opposite wall (he has a little sway in his walk but neither of them can see it through the drunken haze). hoseok laughs along with hyungwon, secretly admiring him, long legs (scars), lithe body, simply beautiful. inside and out. perfection. hyungwon giggles and runs to the balcony, hoseok has to follow him. cold breath of the night, the horizon is slowly but surely changing to a lighter shade, the sun is rising. hoseok wraps his hands around hyungwon, kisses him on the neck when hyungwon drinks champagne straight from the bottle (the bottle clashes on his teeth and some sparkling spills from the corners of his mouth to his chin) and hoseok laughs before taking a mouthful from the bottle and soon the bottle is forgotten and now hoseok’s mouth is on hyungwon’s. he tastes like champaigne and cigarettes. everything’s so messy, the kiss is messy, hyungwon is messy and hoseok is messy (even though he doesn’t admit it to himself). they’re a mess, not a literal one but a figurative one, an endless rollercoaster of feelings. and neither of them could be happier right now. 

 

* * *

 

the water in the bathtub is light pink. it has some rosey bubbles and rose petals in it. hyungwon lays in the tub, knees on his chest, a glass of wine between his fingers. hoseok had never told him he was this good of a massager. hyungwon’s head lulls back and he mumbles something incoherent under his breath when hoseok’s strong hands glide along his shoulders. skilled fingers, indeed, hyungwon has noticed that before. a couple of small smooches on the back of his neck, hyungwon tells about his day, speaks about everything useless, he talks about things without any actual substance. hoseok just nods, mumbles short answers as he always does. hyungwon doesn’t ask how hoseok’s day went. everything in this moment is so fucking fake. hyungwon’s day had actually been horrible, he was a disgusting little whore and his boss had chucked a glass at him. and his manager had found out about hoseok and threatened to stop this madness, hyungwon had a life full of opportunities and hoseok was just a dumb street kid with a cheap motorbike and a cheap leather jacket and even cheaper cigarettes. but hyungwon doesn’t say a word, he just talks about things without any actual substance (and hoseok knows) and they both pretend everything is okay. hyungwon is so fucking scared.

 

that night hoseok kisses him for the last time.

 

* * *

 

hyungwon falls on the catwalk. the bruise in his cheek lasts over three days and the manager has to cancel gucci’s show. three days turn to three weeks. 

 

* * * 

 

the bruise has been on hyungwon’s cheek as long as hoseok has been gone from his life. 

 

* * * 

 

hyungwon can’t properly recall what hoseok smells like. inhale and exhale aren’t faint scars anymore, they’re bright red and fresh. 

 

* * * 

 

hyungwon is proud of himself, he has gotten to his goal: he can’t feel any appetite anymore. he doesn’t feel anything at all. a lie. he feels pain for the tiniest moment. a lie. he feels excruciating pain every second, he remembers hoseok’s blue locks between his fingers, hoseok’s lips against his own lips and sharp eyes, the eyes he could have drowned himself in. could have, past tense. 

 

* * * 

 

the water in the bathtub is light pink. there aren’t any rosey bubbles or rose petals in it. the water is cold. hyungwon has no sense of time. hyungwon is cold. hyungwon has always been cold. his fingertips are wrinkly. there’s some fuzz on his cheeks, like peach fuzz. except this time the fuzz isn’t cute and boyish but disgusting and cold. hyungwon is dry. no tears. his lips are chapped, split. there’s blood on the corner of his mouth. hyungwon doesn’t feel anything. he feels something. that something tears his chest apart, rips him to pieces, shreds all of his being and suffocates him. smothers him. chokes him. hyungwon can’t breathe, he hasn’t been able to breathe in ages. but he’s still living. he’s not alive, but he’s living. he’s floundering. the manager says his skin is finally pale enough. but his eyes could have a little more life in them. hyungwon can’t do that. 

loneliness. it’s a familiar feeling for hyungwon. loneliness is a little bit like a blanket, but it doesn’t warm you up and it doesn’t bring you safety. it rips and shreds and tears. it suffocates you and takes you with it. hyungwon is so fucking cold. so cold he’s shaking, his teeth are clattering, but he doesn’t move, he doesn’t rise from the water. he can’t. oh dear lord he is so cold. so cold. and he misses so much, he misses him so fucking much it suffocates him and he misses him so fucking much it tears him apart and chokes him and tears and rips and shreds and smothers and suffocates and suffocates and suffocates and it tears and rips and stings and burns and cuts and slashes and slits and hyungwon just wants to feel again and he wants to get away and it hurts and it hurts so fucking much and he misses him so much and he wants to get away but he can’t and he’s so cold so fucking cold and the light in the ceiling is sickening blue, the walls have white tiles and hyungwon misses him so m u c h. he misses him so. much. s o fu c ki ng m uc h.

 

a single teardrop runs down his cheek, slowly. hyungwon closes his eyes, leans his head back. his breathing is heavy. heavier. heavier. 

 

heavier. 

hyungwon feels feather light. the pain is fading slowly. he can taste hoseok in his mouth. hoseok’s cigarettes, hoseok’s tears, hoseok. the air smells like rainy days, gasoline, hoseok. something grazes hyungwon’s forehead, mouth, shoulder. familiar words, familiar voice. wake up, hyungwon, wake up. hoseok. hyungwon can breathe again. 

 

hoseok can’t breath anymore. 

 

the water in the bathtub is bright red.


End file.
